Running the Rapids

[Jayce]

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A few none-too-tense minutes later, near mooring pylon AA-19...

"...so anyway, Roanoke Rapids was supposed to be this little town in some old American state near the-..."

"Slime, listen, choomfie. I really, really, really like the head on your shoulders. I do. You're a real goddamn brainiac." Milly paused, rounding a corner. The three-axis elevator had delivered the quartet near Newark's mooring spars, and the occasional porthole gave a view of the Manhattan skyline, framed by Trenton, Long Island, and Albany. And, just a few hundred yards away, a Crane lay at rest, safely adhered to the station. Heavy Lifters swarmed around the craft, thrusting red-and-grey cargo containers into waiting cargo links.

"I hear a 'but' coming, Milly." Slime responded, looking ever-so-slightly downcast. Admittedly, that was his usual expression.

"But now really isn't the time, shorty. We're about to be in some shit. I need your A-game, yeah? Yeah. That goes for all'a you." Slowing her roll just slightly, Milly glanced at her watch, then stole a look out a passageway window. The Lifters were backing off and trundling over to the next waiting transports. Running lights began to illuminate aboard the Train, and a few shudders could be felt through the deckplates as the Roanoke began to power her engines. "Alright, chumps, now or never. Keep the street-shit to a min', and follow my lead. We're a lost maintenance crew, not fuckin' boosters. Not yet."

At precisely that moment, a pair of corporate security guards rounded the last corner, locking eyes with our motley crew of protagonists. The two groups began to close, heavy bootfalls echoing along the corridor. The larger of the opposition spoke first.

"Where are you four headed? Tunnel's closed and locked. Ship's getting ready to leave." His voice was smooth and elegant. No doubt the man had never seen any real goon shit before. He was about to. "Nothing down there but a door and open space."

"Eh? Really? I thought this was AB-23. Isn't the, uh..." Milly stumbled. She hadn't checked the manifest for the rest of the traffic hitting the station. "Isn't this the spar for the 'Kingsport'?"

The shorter of the two guards surveyed the quartet warily, a gloved hand drifting towards the butt of his own energy weapon. "'Kingsport'? No ship on Newark by that name, not today." His eyes narrowed, eventually drifting across the poorly-inscribed tattoos framing Milly's eye. The particulate mask was only halfway doing its job, seeing as it only halfway covered her gaunt features. "Let's see some identification, all of you."

Fuck. Bitch. Piss. Et cetera. Milly was the only one with a badge, and it was a slap-job designed to get her and her squad past the security scanners. "Oh, yeah, sure!" She said, faux-cheerily, as she began to rummage around in her pockets. Her fingers brushed past the prickly, bare wire-laden piece of equipment. As she did so, the shorter guard thumbed his holster, dropping the retention strap and disengaging the safety in one fluid motion. Despite the size difference, this one had some years under his belt, and knew something was up. His hoity-toity cumrag, ahem... Comrade, though, was just as soft as he seemed. Crossing your arms like that was a good way to get lit the fuck up. Watch.

Sliding past the ID card, the woman's slim, nicotine-stained fingers wrapped around the grip of her own heat, a Daumann-produced "Kuhmörder". She'd learned nice and quick that station sensors always picked up energy discharges, but good old-fashioned iron, that was another story. Timeless, but still relevant. She caught Stripes performing much the same motion through her peripheral, though her piece was stuffed into a breast pocket, necessitating the unzipping of her uniform jacket. The movements placed just a touch of tattooed cleavage on display, much to the appeal of the taller guard. Good shit, girl, make 'em drool.

Then, all at once, shit went down, and went down hard. Popping into a squatting position to present a smaller target, as street kids are wont to do, Milly quickly yanked her pistol from her pocket, or tried to, at least. The suppressor attached to the muzzle of the weapon snagged on unfamiliar fabric, and it discharged with a muted 'click' directly into the deckplates. 225 grains of subsonic, flat-nosed lead slapped against the steel floor, and ricocheted around the hallway, taking with it bits of paint, metal, electronics, and a thin strip of singed leg-flesh, before finally coming to rest right at the feet of the larger guard. The entire group stood there for a few precious seconds, utterly dumbfounded at the fuckery on display.

"Cunt!" Milly roared, flecks of blood beginning to stain her trousers. "Fuckin' flatline 'em!" The command was entirely unnecessary, as Stripes hadn't encountered a wardrobe-related malfunction. Her Eviscerator spoke once, then again, blowing two rough, ragged-edged holes in the chest of smaller guard. He hit the deck hard, drawing the attention of the larger man away from the the breasts (and his radio!), and towards the carnage.

"Wuh-..." Was all he managed, before his head disappeared into a chunky emulsion of brain matter, skull, and entirely too much snot. With the action drawing down, Milly's hand shook uncontrollably, a combination of withdrawals and adrenaline. Jamming a finger in one of her ears to soothe the ringing brought on by Stripes' piece, the woman began to note what sounded like screaming echoing from behind her. That was odd, considering neither guard managed to clear leather. Seconds ticked by, and she returned to reality proper. Glancing back, she quickly noticed Slime and Cueball rolling on the floor, presumably in agony after some unknown trauma.

Or, as was actually the case, they were both pissing themselves with laughter.

"Ho-ly shit, Milly! 'Bring your A-game', she says! 'That goes for all of you', she says, and then about goddamn near shoots her own fucking snatch off!" The buzz cut-wearing man hollered, tears streaming down his face.

Slime joined in on the ribbing, his face red with exertion, barely able to stutter out his sentence. "Fuck me, what a hatchet-wound of a pussy that'd be! Ahah!" Gone was the mopey, downtrodden facade the boy normally wore, replaced with a visage of utter glee.

"Awh, fuck you too! Come on, we're wastin' fuckin' time here!" Shoving her pistol back in the pocket it was unceremoniously born from, Milly kicked at the body currently missing a head. "Hey. Hey, you two! We can't just fucking leave these guys here, or the rest of station security is going to throw a fuckin' shitfit. Find an access card or somethin', and then let's hump these bodies onto the ship."

Stripes was soon at Milly's side, rummaging around in the pockets of the shorter guard like an expert pickpocket. In half a minute, she produced a bloodstained identification badge, and waved it practically in Milly's face. "Got it!"

"Fuckin' A, alright, let's... I said quit dickin' around, and let's move!" The blonde screamed towards the two men slowly hauling themselves off the floor, her voice quivering slightly.

"I'on know about you, Milly, but I'm not down with humping bodies. Different strokes, though!" Cueball retorted, shuffling over to the larger of the two guards. Snatching hold of one ankle, the burly man began to drag the still-leaking corpse towards the airlock, leaving a big ol' schmear of blood and viscera behind, and giggling all the while. Milly let out a sighing raspberry. It just keeps getting worse.

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